


#FML

by x_posed_again



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Shy Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_posed_again/pseuds/x_posed_again
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don’t just meet the potential love of your life at 2:00 a.m. while drunk and waiting in line for the best hotdogs this side of the state, you just don’t. Except that apparently Jensen does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#FML

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a SPN_J2_Xmas gift for viviansface. I took your likes of Jensen being shy, boys being nerds, angst and your prompt about Twitter, put it all in a blender and came out with this story—hopefully it resembles something from your likes! And a big thank you to my beta who saved my butt like always!

Jensen Ackles is pretty sure of two things: 8:00 a.m. classes should not exist and that his roommates are assholes. He’s even more certain of the second as he opens his eyes and squints against the light filtering in from the broken vertical blinds in his bedroom. It cuts across his corneas and kicks the pounding in his head up another notch. A steady _thump thump_ bangs against his brain like a freight train to the tune of his high-pitched alarm clock.

_Fuck._ Tequila was a bad call.

Only Jensen comes to this conclusion about 10 hours too late as he fumbles for his glasses, cursing out loud as he realizes the burning in his eyes can only mean he slept with his contact in…again. With a load groan he drags himself out of bed and promptly deposits his ass on the bathroom floor. One can never be too safe about these types of situations and if he is going to revisit whatever the hell it was that he was drinking last night he wants to make sure he is somewhere that the cleanup will be minimal afterwards.

He’s nothing if he isn’t logical.

Or at least he is when he hasn’t somehow been persuaded into shots. And really, even then he isn’t Mr. Wild and Crazy. Alcohol shuts him down, chills him out while he rides the peasant mellow buzz that a few beers bring with them. _Beer, Mikey… not Tequila._ But that’s an argument for when Jensen can manage to string two viable syllables together. Which doesn’t seem like it will be happening anytime soon.

Last night, well last night was a bad idea. A bad idea surrounded by misjudgment wrapped up in too many shots and too few brain cells and that’s just too much thinking for him to handle right now. He’ll blame Mike and Misha later—much later when he recovers enough to stumble out of his bedroom and hunt down his idiot roommates who thought blowing off some steam on a random Wednesday night was a good idea. And that taking Jensen with them was the next logical step in their evil equation. Only it’s way too much thinking for the way his head is pounding and his stomach is churning and _fuck_ … he needs more time bed, so much more time in bed. Then thinking.

Thinking is so over rated right now.

\----------------------------

When Jensen comes-to the second time it’s to the sound of knocking at his door and Misha’s voice on the other side.

“Wakey wakey, my dear boy! Did you survive the night or should I call your parents and give them the sad news?”

Sometimes Jensen wonders why he is friends with these people. Having resided to the fact that no more sleep is coming his way today he tries for a resounding “fuck you,” but it comes out more as “mmmhh hrmm” from under his fortress of blankets.

“He lives!” Misha flings the door open and sits himself on top of Jensen—cocoon of covers and all. “Time to rise and shine, Sunshine.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.” And really, if Jensen drank too much last night then Misha must have alcohol poisoning. The fact that the man doesn’t even seem phased by the shear amount of liquor that is surely still swimming around in his gut makes Jensen want to punch Misha in the face. “Besides… I brought coffee.”

And that get’s Jensen’s attention—at least enough for him to untangle his arms and stick them out from under his comforter enough to make grabby hands in the general direction of where his roommate’s voice is coming from.

“So predictable,” comes the response as a warm mug is shoved against his fingers.

There is a retort there, Jensen is sure of it. Only it dies on his tongue as the warm dark drink passes his lips.

“So… Jared, huh?”

Jensen keeps the cup securely against his lips as he shoots Misha a sideways glance. Whatever his roommate is playing at, Jensen isn’t in the mood. Only as Jensen tracks Misha eyes does he land on the kindergarten-like scrawl marking him from elbow to hand. The name JARED spelled out in messy caps that look nothing like Jensen’s own writing and everything like a fifth grader might have done it along with little over half of a phone number smeared across his skin.

A flash of brown hair and slanted eyes dart across his mind and yeah, Jensen might never be drinking tequila again, but he can’t find it in his heart to hate the stuff right now either.

“Don’t ask.”

“Don’t need to. I was there, remember?” At that his roommate jumps up and makes his way out towards the living room. “Or maybe you don’t?”

And OK, Jensen was drunk. Drunker than he can remember being in a long time, but he remembers Jared… or at least he thinks he does. Only when he closes his eyes all he recalls is brown hair, dimples and a horrible paisley shirt and, _shit_ , what bar were they even at last night?

“Mish!” He calls after the dark haired man, legs kicking out from underneath the sheets as he goes. “What the hell happened last night?”

\----------------------------

“And this is why we can’t take you anywhere, Jenny.” Mike is sitting on the couch, legs stretched out with one long limb slung over the side, smug grin plastered on his face. “Get one drink in you and look what happens.”

Jensen doesn’t know if he can physically harm someone by trying to bore holes into their head with just his eyes, but damn if he isn’t willing to try.

“Seriously, Jen. You gonna hit that or what?”

If Jensen could actually wrap his brain around what Mike is asking him he might be able to answer. “Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever. I’m gonna guess that by your overall bitch level that you haven’t been sufficiently caffeinated yet so I’ll give you a small break. But seriously, man…dude was all over you. Even deposited his autograph on your arm as a keepsake.” Mike makes his point by grabbing Jensen and jiggling said appendage around like Jell-O. Jensen can’t help the rapid fire blush that crawls across his nose and cheekbones.

It’s not like Jensen hasn’t had guys interested in him before. He has. Plenty of times. It’s just when he opens his mouth and promptly inserts his own foot or trips over his tongue—that is if any words come out at all—it doesn’t leave the best impression. He isn’t Mr. Debonair Suave. Hell, he isn’t even Mr. Semi Intelligible most of the time when it comes to guys he is interested in. No, Jensen is more of a window shopper. Look, but don’t touch. It’s safer that way. No stupid words to get in the way. No fumbling over his own thoughts as he tries to force his mouth to form a coherent cadence of sound.

Mike leers at him, hand sweeping across his own body in an exaggerated gesture effectively pulling Jensen from his own thoughts. “So...you gonna call him or what?”

“Call him?” Jensen must have killed more brain cells last night than he originally calculated because it takes him a full minute to process what his roommate is getting at. Mike must still be drunk, or sixteen shades of delusional because the thought of Jensen making the first move… yeah, that shit just doesn’t happen. Ever. “Um…”

“Look, Jenny. Just call the kid. You like him—” Jensen cuts him off right there because how can he like a guy he barley remembers. He tells Mike as much and only gets an eye roll in his general direction as a reward. “Dude, you kept telling us that you were going marry the man. Pretty sure there were little pink hearts in your eyes and everything. Misha and I had to haul your drunken ass into bed while you mumbled about already being in love. You so want a piece of that.”

Subtlety has never been Mike’s strong suit.

“Dude is a sure thing, Jensen.” Misha’s voice pipes in from somewhere around the kitchen. Great, now he’s being tag-teamed… and not the fun sexy way either. Not that things like that ever happen to him. But he’s seen it in porn before, OK? That shit has to be based in some form of reality—alternate or otherwise. Give him a break.

“OK, so say I wanted to talk to this guy again,” Jensen gives Mike a side glace when he can practically feel the “but Jensen” already coming his way. “You’re forgetting I don’t have his number. Well, his full number anyway.” Jensen raises his arm, dried ink smudged all the way to his elbow effectively obscuring the last two digits in the phone number.

Mike jumps up way to nimbly for someone with that much liquor still in his bloodstream and pulls what looks to be suspiciously like Jensen’s cell phone out from his own pocket. “Already handled, Kiddo.”

“You had the foresight to get his number and program it into my phone?” If Jensen sounds surprised it’s because he is. This _is_ Mike after all.

“Fuck no! Who do you think I am?” Mike says this as if he is actually offended by the question. “I used that hashtagy thing that you are constantly playing with on your phone.”

Jensen’s eyes may bug out of his head at the statement. He isn’t one hundred percent sure on that, but it seems likely that they do. At the very least he chokes on his own spit at the thought. “You tweeted?!”

His roommate has always been very vocal about Jensen’s use of social media. And while Mike says it isn’t, and Jensen is quoting here, “normal to have a complete alternate personality online, douchenozzel,” Jensen begs to differ. And really, any argument followed up by the term douchenozzel is null and void in Jensen’s book.

Besides, Twitter isn’t an alternate personality; it’s just the non-socially awkward side of Jensen summed up in 140 characters or less.

“Tweeing? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” The phone is tossed in Jensen’s direction and he fumbles with it before quickly unlocking the screen.

“But, how… I mean… you…. what?”

“You’re a fun drunk, Jen. A bit handsy and way too trusting, but fun. Also, give me some credit dude.”

Mike might still be talking. Jensen can’t be sure. Instead the only thing he can focus on is the small screen in his hands and the last tweet sent from his account.

And really what more can Jensen do? It’s out there, full awkward glory and all. Even if he deleted it thousands of U of M students have probably seen it by now. Maybe he can issue a retraction. Make a joke out of the whole thing—a funny story about the antics of “drunken Mike.” Because that’s all this is. Has to be. It’s not like you just meet the potential love of your life at 2:00 a.m. while drunk and waiting in line for the best hotdogs this side of the state, you just don’t.

Except that apparently, Jensen does.

\-----------------------

Jensen doesn’t think about it. Not really. Tries to shove it to the back of his brain while he pours over books and lab results. Loses himself within library walls so familiar they might as well be his own bedroom.

But it’s there. Nagging him. Plaguing his picture perfect, and finally hangover free, study zone and Jensen feels off. Like he’s about the crawl out of his skin and he isn’t that guy—he doesn’t do this. So he can’t explain why he needs it now. Wants a response so bad he can practically taste the heavy desperation of it on his tongue. He just knows that he does. And _fuck_ if that doesn’t mess with his head.

\-----------------------

Jensen’s answer comes that night while he’s stuffing his face with Easy Mac— _it’s a perfectly acceptable dinner option thank you very much._ His Twitter app pinging to life and for a split second his heart beats so hard he thinks it might pound right out of his chest. Jensen’s fingers are shaking so damn bad he nearly drops his phone into the orange gooey mess that’s still hanging around in the bottom of his bowl.

It’s only 49 characters, but it’s all he needs.

OK. OK. O _fucking_ K. Jensen can do this. He is totally cool, calm and _holy fucking shit!_ In all of his “what happens if I actually get a response” freak-out, Jensen never really figured out what he was supposed to do if he actually got a response! _Oh God… air…. breathing… in… out… in… out…_

“Jensen!”

The sound of Misha’s voice booming from the hallway causes Jensen to fumble the sleek black phone in his hand like it’s his first day of peewee football— _thanks for that failed experiment, Dad_ —and he watches as it clatters and clanks and skids across his bedroom floor. Jensen stares at it, offended as if it chose to jump there itself when the stupid black box buzzes to life again. A loud, harsh jolt that damn near shakes the floorboards.

“The hell is that?” Misha’s face appears in his doorway with what looks to be flour spread across his forehead.

“It’s nothing, just—are you… baking?”

“Cupcakes, Sweet Cheeks. Tequila Sunrise. Want a bite?” The brunette raises his eyebrows, wiggling them around in a suggestive manor.

“What? No! No cupcakes, no more Tequila!”

“Wow, what’s got your panties all in a knot?”

“Nothing I—” Jensen is interrupted by the harsh buzz of his phone again, a reminder that he has more pressing issues at hand than liquor drenched confections. “This,” he points at the offending iPhone now lying silent and facedown on the floor. “This is all _your_ fault!”

Jensen can see the moment the synapses connect in his roommate’s brain. It’s like watching an evil seed take root and grow.

“Is that the infamous Jared?” The blush on Jensen’s face gives everything away. “Well look at you, my baby boy is turning into a man right before my very eyes.”

“Can it, Collins.”

“Is that anyway to treat your best friend? Really, Ackles, I’m hurt.”

Hurt? _Hurt?_ Jensen is all of six seconds away from having an aneurism and Misha _fucking_ Collins wants to paly hurt?! If they hadn’t hung out since Misha had defended Jensen after Jensen got pushed to the dirt in second grade by Tom Welling after being called a girl… well, then Jensen would have given Misha a piece of his mind.

Instead, Jensen flails, lands face first on his bed and slams a pillow over his head. “What am I supposed to do, Mish?”

An exasperated sigh follows along with a gentle, but firm hand on his shoulder. “Just talk to him. What do you have to lose?”

_Let’s see, his dignity for starters._

“Seriously, Jensen. They guy pretty much made a beeline for you the minute he spotted you. Even with ketchup all over your face he still gave you his number.”

“I did not have—wait. Why didn’t you tell me?!”

The knowing smile Jensen gets in return is enough to let him know how much his best friend enjoyed seeing him make an idiot of himself.

“Besides, dude is hot. Even I can appreciate the fine male form that he presents.”

“Mish, you’re bi. Of course you can.”

A resounding smack to Jensen’s ass echoes off the walls, “One time, Ackles. Can’t a guy experiment? Besides, I hate labels.”

“Yeah, yeah. And you better not have left flour all over my shirt!” Jensen scrubs at the offending shoulder as his roommate backs out of the room, heavy footsteps falling down the hall as the screen light from Jensen’s phone finally dims out.”

\----------------------------

It’s three in the morning and Jensen can’t sleep. Three in the _God damned_ morning and Jensen hasn’t so much as touched his phone. It’s still lying abandoned in the middle of his bedroom floor. _Damnit, he is a wuss._

What’s the worst that can happen? The guy could totally wig out over Jensen looking for him, or over his own buddy giving him up online, but Jared _did_ leave Jensen his number. And worst-case scenario Jensen can still play it off as something Mike did— _which he totally did, asshat!_

He isn’t going to get any sleep not looking at the damn phone so he might as well bite the bullet and see what the message is. With any luck it will be some stupid tweet from someone in his bio stats class looking to study. Jensen does have the best grade in his class after all.

Alright. Now or never, Ackles.

Jensen quickly jumps from his bed, hopes over to the phone like his floor is hot lava and is back under the safety of his covers in no time flat. The case isn’t any worse for wear after the small beating it took from its nosedive to the ground earlier so at least he has that going for him.

Flicking open the screen Jensen has to force himself to look as he opens the app and waits.

One new mention. One. New. Mention.

Shit.

Jensen stares at the tweet. The small thumbnail of a photo not offering much other than brown shaggy hair, dimples and _holy shit how big is that damn dog?!_ Jensen certainly thinks he would have remembered if he met _that_ dog the other night. _Totally beside the point, Ackles._

Mustering what little courage he can Jensen clicks on _@jpad’s_ account and makes a beeline to the photos. And there are a ton. Some of Jared with the Beluga Whale of a dog, others of him with what Jensen is assuming are friends, shots around campus—Jared at The Big House tailgating before a game, a shot of Jared posing in front of The Cube and another of him outside of Yost, skates in one hand and a hockey stick in the other. But what really catches Jensen’s attention isn’t just how many photos there are, but that Jared looks good in each and every one of them.

Broad smile, dimples so deep Jensen thinks he could lose his thumb in them, eyes shining in greens and browns and _fuck_ , Jared isn’t just good looking. He is down right gorgeous. The hottest thing Jensen has ever seen and isn’t that just Jensen’s luck because guys like that, guys like Jared… well, they don’t go for guys like Jensen. Not once they see his glasses, his inability to talk in social situations, the piles of biology and medical terminology books he totes around, his freckles or the stupid way his ears stick out further than they should.

And hell, Jared was drunk when they met. He probably overlooked 85 percent of that and Jensen can feel his heart sink down to his toes. Pathetic. The situation. Jensen. All of it.

Taking one last good look at a photo of Jared with a small brunette on his lap, Jensen goes to close his app. Only the small notification of one new direct message catches his eye. It’s private, sent just to him and he can already feel the lump forming in his throat as he clicks it open.

Jared’s non-smeared number rests at the bottom of the message and Jensen may be a little pathetic, but that doesn’t stop him from programing the number straight into his phone just in case. It makes him feel like he accomplished something; actually got a guy’s number for something other than a study group.

Did Jensen mention pathetic?

\----------------------------

The thing is, Jensen doesn’t really have time to wallow in self-pity for long. He has a test in his Anatomy class and a paper due for Research Methods and he keeps busy long enough that he almost forgets all about _@jpad_ and the guy’s stupid hair and pretty eyes and dog that would probably eat Jensen for a snack.

Almost.

\----------------------------

“Any plans for the evening, Jen?”

A half empty beer bottle clanks down on his desk followed by an unopened one. The condensation sweats down the sides and leaves a wet ring on his notepad as Jensen eyes it with disdain. _Great._

“You’re looking at it.”

Mike eyes the stacks of books and piles of papers that are set so high on Jensen’s desk that they might as well be a fortress and rolls his eyes. “Dollar draft night, man. You in?”

Because the last time Jensen went along with one of Mike’s nights out it ended so well.

“No.”

“Oh come on. I can’t take your moping any more. Either come out with us or grow a pair and call the boy. It’s that simple.”

It’s not just that simple. There are considerations and precautions and Jensen has given this a lot of thought, all right? And not just about Jared, but about all of his dating experience (or lack thereof). Theoretically he knows how this is supposed to work, only it never goes that way for him. No matter how much he plans or practices everything comes out stilted and stalled. Unnatural even in his own skin and face-to-face is hard, OK?

He must space out for a minute because the next thing he knows Mike is pressing a phone into Jensen’s hand and yeah, Jensen can take a hint. There is homework to do, more reading and papers that won’t write themselves, but first there is a cold beer that needs attending to and a boy that Jensen just can’t get out of his head.

\----------------------------

Jensen waits until the house is empty. Mike and Misha have headed off to gosh knows where and will more than likely be gone until early morning. That leaves Jensen plenty of time to sit and over-think the situation. He’s two beers in and is finally feeling relaxed enough to stop staring at Jared’s number and actually send the guy a text.

It’s a good five minutes of pep talking himself before he finally settles on a simple _“Hi.”_ And another three before he finds the guts to hit send.

There. Done. Over with.

Jensen closes the screen and goes to toss it onto the bed, but it jumps to life vibrating in his hand before he has the chance and _oh, God that can’t be good._ He turns the phone back over and eyeballs the simple response.

_Um, hi?_

Idiot. Jensen is an idiot. Of course Jared wouldn’t know who was texting. Jensen may have Jared’s number, but he never explained who he was in the message. With a deep breath and a swig or two of beer he responds with: _#hotdogguy._

The text back is even quicker this time around. _Hi, man! You got my message :)_

Jensen can’t help but chuckle. _Obviously ;)_

So far so good. He can do this.

_**Jared:** Sorry about my chicken scratch handwriting. I guess my drunken mind didn’t think about you actually having to interpret that scrawl in the morning._  
 _**Jensen:** More like sorry about me smearing the ink all over the place in my sleep._  
 _**Jared:** You were pretty drunk._  
 _**Jensen:** So my roommates keep reminding me. Tequila is not my friend._  
 _**Jared:** Is it anyone’s? So um, I feel like a real idiot, but… I don’t really remember your name. Jason?_

Jensen sighs. Jared doesn’t remember him, or at least not enough to leave an impression. Jensen is going to kill Mike. Honest and truly murder him in his sleep. Oh well, might as well end this now while he still might have a shot at walking away with some dignity.

_**Jensen:** Close. Jensen._  
 _**Jared:** Hi, Jensen :)_  
 _**Jensen:** Not to be an ass (which my friends tell me is hard for me to do), but if you didn’t remember me then why respond to my tweet?_

There is no response for a full minute. Jensen is about two seconds away from just turning his phone off for the night and forgetting this whole thing ever happened when Jared responds.

_Oh, I remember you, Jensen. Gorgeous smile, adorable freckles and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. I’m just shit with names. Don’t hate me?_

Jensen is pretty sure hate is the furthest thing from what he is feeling at the moment.

_**Jensen:** Hate? No. Fodder to mock you with endlessly later? Yes._  
 _**Jared:** Sounds fair._  
 _**Jared:** So, I know this is really last minute, but some buddies of mine and I are heading out to grab a drink. You wanna join?_

Jensen slams on the breaks and puts it in revers as fast as he can.

_**Jensen:** Not tonight, sorry. Classes are kicking my ass. I’m up to my eyeballs in work._  
 _**Jared:** I get it. Totally. I won’t keep you from work. Don’t want anything harming that sweet ass. :-P Talk to you soon?_  
 _**Jensen:** Definitely._

Well, that could have gone a whole lot worse. Jensen marks this one down in the “win” category and smiles. What? He doesn’t get to do it that often, cut him some slack.

He thinks that’s probably the end of it for the night. Jared is out being a normal college guy getting drunk and hanging out with friends while Jensen has a gap as wide as the Red Sea to fill in his research paper. But two cups of coffee and one failed writing attempt later Jensen’s phone buzzes to life next to him.

_Can’t stop smiling. Been thinking about you since we met the other night. Hope that doesn’t freak you out. Goodnight, Gorgeous. –J_

Jensen puts all plans of Mike’s fatal demise on hold—at least for the moment.

\----------------------------

It’s three days later when the next invitation comes. Jensen and Jared have been texting almost constantly. The ping to alert him to a next text message almost Pavlovian as it sends the corners of Jensen’s mouth twitching up into a smile every time.

_**Jared:** What are you doing on Friday?_  
 _**Jensen:** Same thing as every weekend… trying to take over the world._  
 _**Jared:** Well, after that?_  
 _**Jensen:** Um, after?_  
 _**Jared:** Yeah. I mean, total world domination has to make a guy hungry right? I was thinking we could hit up Zingerman's. Best sandwiches in A2._

That’s… well, yes, that’s totally true. Anyone within a 50-mile radius of Ann Arbor knew about Zingerman's. Which was precisely the problem.

Just thinking about meeting Jared again was already something that made Jensen break out in a cold sweat. Add a teaming mass of hungry people into the mix and cold sweat turns into full on sweating buckets.

_**Jensen:** True, but I’d like to be able to eat mine before I graduate. Lines are always out the door.  
 **Jared:** Right. Maybe some other time then._

Jensen gets the distinct feeling that he just totally blew that.

\----------------------------

The third and fourth invites come in the following weeks. Once as a suggestion to come over to a party a Jared’s place and the next when Jared needs another body for a flag football game.

Jensen fumbles both of them in spectacular fashion.

\----------------------------

It’s three weeks to the day of them starting this whole texting thing when Jared actually calls. It’s throws Jensen for such a loop that he doesn’t pick up the phone not because he doesn’t want to, but for the fact the he can’t make his fingers work enough to actually answer the damn thing.

The second and third phone calls he misses are totally on purpose.

\----------------------------

It’s by chance that Jared gets Jensen on the phone at all. OK, no. You know what, fuck that. It’s totally Mike’s fault... once again.

Jensen is half asleep on the couch, another action flick where something blows up playing in the background as his roommates plan a bar crawl for the weekend. The faint buzz of a cell phone ringing registers someone in the back of his mind, but it isn’t until Mike’s “No, man. Hold on I’ll get him,” followed by a phone being dumped in his lap does Jensen realize it’s his own.

Sleepy and only semi-responsive, Jensen jams the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“’ello?”

“Jensen?”

The voice is soft, rich and warm and goes straight to his cock which causes Jensen to sit up and rub frantically at his eyes as he tries to clear the fog away.

“Uh yeah, um… yeah, that’s me.”

A rush of air, a laugh and then “Hey man, its Jared.” And he sounds damn relieved. Like getting Jensen on the phone was his last dying wish and that kicks the guilt that has been swimming around in Jensen’s gut up a notch.

“H-hey, Jared.”

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Just John McClane killing some Germans.”

“Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker."

Jensen can’t help the small laugh that busts forward. OK, he can do this too.

\----------------------------

The fifth invite comes during a heated debate over the merits of hockey as an actual sport. While Jared loves it, Jensen finds it a total waste of brain space. Jared’s invite to attend a game to prove Jensen wrong goes unaccepted.

The sixth is for a walk with Jared as he takes his dog out. Jensen has to decline for shear fear that the beast will eat him alive.

The eighth time… well, the eighth time finds Jared calling when Jensen knows damn well the boy is out drinking with his friends. He knows this because the seventh time was an invite to said bar with said hot ass boy.

Yeah, Jensen is a professional avoider.

The phone rings a few times before Jensen can locate it under his stacks of papers and he’s a little breathless by the time he finally gets the damn thing open.

“Jared? Aren’t you supposed to be out?”

“Yeah. I mean I am. I just stepped outside for some air. Thought I would call… wanted to call, actually.” There is a long pause, a sigh and then “am I barking up the wrong tree here, man?”

So Jensen has been pretty splendid at avoiding any actual face time with his current big gay crush. They have been talking for weeks, hours and hours of chatter ranging from mundane to down right deep. And Jensen has loved every damn second of it. He hasn’t really thought that in all of his avoiding that he was actually…. well… avoiding.

“It’s just,” Jared continues, exasperation evident in his voice. “I thought we really hit it off the night we met. And then texting went good too and once I was finally able to get you on the phone… shit, I mean I figured you were avoiding me then. But now? We get along great and I get that you probably have a ton of options and can have anyone you want, but… I guess. Look, I’m gonna ask one more time. And if your answer is still no then I’ll finally take the hit and walk away. But, before you answer just know that I think we could be really good together and I’m willing to try if you are. So, do you want to come over tomorrow? My roommate is going to be gone at his girlfriend’s for the weekend so it will just be you and me. We can hang out and watch Bruce Wills or Will Smith or whoever the fuck you wanna watch blow something up. What do you say, Jensen?”

Jensen’s ears are ringing; the words not quiet making sense in his own head as he tries and fails a few times at spitting the response out. It’s only by a small miracle that he manages to press the “yes” past his lips.

“Good… great, actually. Five o’clock? I’ll order pizza.”

“OK.”

“Great. I’ll see you then. Good night, Jen.”

Jensen hangs on the line long after the dial tone clicks on. What in the ever loving fuck just happened?

\----------------------------

“You have to breath, Jensen. Hyperventilating will do you absolutely no good.” Misha is rubbing slow soothing circles on Jensen’s back, tracing the tension resting between shoulder blades.

“You can’t get laid if you pass out and die, Jenny.” Jensen raises his middle finger in Mike’s direction as a response.

Jensen is meant to be at Jared’s in less than an hour and so far he has managed to finally find a shirt and pants combination that Misha deems “not too bad” and to nearly blind himself in an attempt to put his contacts in. He gives up on the later opting for his glasses while his clothing choice for the night is still up for debate.

“Alright, I don’t like cock enough for this conversation,” Mike declares as he extracts himself from Jensen’s desk chair and heads for the door.

“Does that mean there is a level that you _do_ like cock enough?” Misha crooks a questioning eyebrow in Mike’s direction.

Mike answers the question with a smack to the back of the man’s head as he strides out of the room.

In the end Jensen settles for a dark green button up and his favorite pair of jeans. The glasses stay too. He prefers actually being able to see Jared over gouging his own eyes out. Sacrifices or something like that.

It’s quarter five when Misha literally pushes Jensen out the door of their house and three minutes to when Jensen finally walks up to the door of Jared’s apartment.

He’s twitchy with anticipation and nerves and he looks for something to do with his hands other than ring the bell. They feel empty and awkward and _shit_ , should he have brought something? Is that a thing? Jensen is pretty sure that’s a thing and that he has messed this up before the date has even started.

Only he doesn’t get long to contemplate the thought before the door is being yanked open and Jensen is confronted with well over six feet of absolute hotness. Online photos did Jared no justice—the guy is like a tree. All long limbed and lithe and Jensen wonders how hard it would be to climb him.

“Jensen, hey.” Jared’s voice drags Jensen out of his thoughts and back up to a wide simple and _Jesus fuck, those dimples._ This is where Jensen should say something. Really, a simple “hi” would suffice, but his mouth is so dry his tongue is practically stuck to the roof of it so he settles for a simple nod and a small wave.

_Right. Great. This is going splendid._

“Hope it wasn’t too hard to find. I don’t know what kind of beer you like so I have a few different ones chillin’ and a couple movies to pick through and—No! Harley!”

Before Jensen even knows what hits him he is ass to the ground staring up at the blue Ann Arbor sky—another great first impression in the books. Jensen can hear Jared trying to carrel the small farm animal that Jensen just got steamrolled by and he closes his eyes and prays to any God that will listen to let this be a bad dream.

“Jensen? Jensen?” A strong grip on his shoulder and an incessant shaking pulls him back to reality. “Oh thank God. I thought maybe you were knocked out. Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride.” Jensen pulls out of Jared’s strong grip and slowly but surely rights himself. His hands are stinging and his knee feels scrapped raw, but other than that he seems to be in one piece. The world looks a bit blurry and it takes a few seconds for him to realize that he is, in fact, not concussed. “Do you… uh… see my glasses anywhere?”

“Glasses? Oh um… yeah, here. They fell in the grass so I don’t think they are broken.”

Jensen slides them on, inspecting for damage as he does. Once the world comes back into focus Jensen can see Jared’s look of concern and that does nothing to help the nerves in his own stomach. Less than five minutes in and Jensen has already managed to look like a complete spaz.

“Look, I’m really sorry. Harley, he’s harmless really… he just gets excited. Forgets he isn’t a lap dog.”

“That was your dog?!” Oh God, Jensen grossly underestimated the size of the thing.

“Yeah. I mean, if you would prefer not to come in I understand. But I will put him in Chad’s room for the night and—shit, Jensen. You’re bleeding.”

“What?” Jensen holds his hands up and notices the road rash streaked across his palms, chunks of gravel clinging to his skin.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” Jensen makes to follow Jared into the apartment only when he goes to put weight on his right leg his knee cries out in protest and he sucks in a quick hiss of pain. “Shit, man. I’m so sorry.”

The kicked puppy dog look that is firmly planted onto Jared’s face? Jensen put that there. He sucks at life. “It’s no big deal.”

Jared doesn’t respond, only takes Jensen by the elbow and guides him into the kitchen.

“Can you hop up on the counter? I’m just going to put Harley away and get some supplies from the bathroom.”

Jensen manages to climb onto the linoleum before burying his head in his scraped up hands. This is going splendidly. About par for the course where Jensen’s dating life is concerned—a spectacular crash and burn. This was a bad idea.

“It was?”

Jensen’s head snaps up so fast the room starts to spin. Jared is standing there, ice pack in hand before gently taking Jensen’s hand and pressing the cold block against a bleeding palm.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yeah,” and the kicked puppy look is back, all shaggy bangs falling over hazel-green eyes and Jensen kind of wants to lean in and kiss that look away. Would pay just so nothing ever hurts Jared enough to put that look there again.

“Sorry, I’m… I’m uh, not very good at this.”

“Being run over by a dog?”

“No, jerk.” Jensen playfully pushes at Jared’s _holy shit that’s broad_ shoulder. “Dating. I actually really suck at it. Sorry, probably should have warned you ahead of time.”

“It’s cool. Like I said, you can go if you want. No hard feelings.” Jared doesn’t look at Jensen while he talks, instead opting to gently wipe a wet cloth over the scrapes on Jensen’s skin.

The touches are light and delicate and Jensen suddenly feels like this is an out. Like Jared is going to let Jensen cut his losses before he does any more monumentally stupid shit. It also feels a lot like opportunity.

“Is that what you want?”

Jared’s hands still, warm and calm in his own. “Not at all.”

The smile that breaks out across Jensen’s face about cracks his cheeks in half. “Good, me either.”

Jared makes quick work of cleaning the scrapes and cuts; he even puts a large bandage on Jensen’s knee before turning his attention back to Jensen’s face. “Didn’t hit your head did you?” Large hands rest against Jensen’s cheeks as Jared tilts Jensen’s head one way and then another checking him for any additional injuries.

It’s hard to breath, hard to speak with the full weight of Jared’s eyes on him. “N-no.”

“Good. Glasses good too?”

“Yes,” Jared may be able to hear Jensen swallow around the jump in his own throat. It’s a valid concern.

“I didn’t know you wore them. Did you have contacts in the night we met?”

“Uh, ya. I do that sometimes.” _Jesus, Jensen. Words… you put them together into intelligible thoughts and then you speak them._

“I like them,” Jared’s thumb brushes over the bridge of Jensen’s nose just under the wire frames and Jensen can feel his face heating up, Jared’s fingers chasing the heavy pink blossoming on Jensen’s check. “Cute.”

“I, uh… thanks?” Jared chuckles at that and Jensen is once again reminded just how crappy he is at this whole face-to-face thing.

“So,” Jared pulls back, the space where he was now cold against Jensen’s skin. “Pizza?”

\----------------------------

Forty-five minutes later they find themselves two beers and two pieces of pizza—each—into _The Usual Suspects._ It’s not _Die Hard_ , but still a damn good choice.

“I totally knew that Spacy was Söze the first time I saw this. Called it right away.”

Jensen gives a snort of amusement. “No way man. No one called that because no one saw it coming. Shit was epic.”

“No really, ask Chad.” Jared stops, pizza midway to his mouth. “No, actually don’t do that. Don’t ask Chad anything. Ever.”

“Roommate?”

“And best friend. He is a bit, uh… much some times, but he knows where all the bodies are buried if you know what I mean.”

A flash of Mike and Misha crosses Jensen’s mind. “Yeah, I have a few of those. Hey, he is the one who responded to my tweet, right?”

“Yup. I uh…. confession?” Jared turns on the couch and squares his hips so he is facing Jensen. “I’ve been pretty gone for you from the moment we met. Chad said I wouldn’t shut up about you—kept telling him how sweet you were… not to mentioned good looking. He figured if he didn’t give you my number that he would be stuck listening to me whine about my hotdog dream guy who never called.”

Jensen stops chewing mid bite. He knew Jared had been interested—he _was_ here on a date after all, but Jensen figures he has done a pretty good job of making Jared want to run for the hills. He thinks he should probably verbalize that; tell Jared as much, but the only thing that comes out it “you really think I’m good looking?”

The blinding smile he gets in return is totally worth the humiliation for his lack of brain the mouth filter. “Hottest guy I have ever seen.”

“Jesus, Jared. Have you seen you?”

“Yeah, lived with me too so I know that I can be kind of uh, overwhelming? I’m big and loud and all over the place so when you kept blowing me off I just figured that…” he doesn’t finish the thought, instead shrugs his shoulders before returning to his own pizza.

And that just won’t do. Jared is amazing and kind and Jensen wants to tell him that. Tell him how much it means to him that he kept trying, kept pulling Jensen out of his own shell when Jensen was so firmly planted in it. But he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know the words so he does that only thing that makes sense in that moment. He full on flings himself into Jared, pizza dropping onto the floor and coffee table kicked out of the way as Jensen crawls into Jared’s lap, straddles his hips and gently bites down on the taller man’s lips.

“Fuck… fuck, Jensen.” Jared’s strong arms reach up and grasp Jensen by the waist, pulling him in tight until their hips are snug up against each other. Jared takes control of the kiss, settling Jensen down and knocking them into some kind of rhythm. It’s warm and wet and the slick slide of Jared’s tongue against Jensen’s own has him stuttering his hips forward and down, rocking against Jared’s lap.

“God dammit, Jensen. Is this… fuck… are you sure?”

This isn’t the first time Jensen has been with someone, but it’s the first in a long time and he has been keyed up since that first twitter message weeks ago. He grinds down against Jared again, hoping the act sends the message he wants it to before he latches his lips against the pulse point directly under Jared’s ear and sucks. They move together, Jared pushing up and Jensen rocking down and _oh, God_ this is going to be over for Jensen before they even really get started.

It’s too much, much too much and he should stop this… whatever this is right now only his legs won’t move and his fingers are wound into tight balls at his sides and Jared’s hands… Jesus, Jared’s hands are resting on Jensen’s hips pulling him forward and really, who is Jensen to argue with that?

So he goes with it. Let’s Jared guide him, move his body exactly where Jared wants it and it feels so good, so right that Jensen wants to cry out. Only no sound escapes, nothing leaves his mouth when he parts his lips except for a shaky breath that Jared immediately swallows up. His lips fitting over Jensen’s like they have always belonged there.

Jared shifts, rearranges them and shoves his thigh between Jensen’s legs, gentle but forceful and Jensen can’t… he _can’t_ stop himself from bucking forward and riding Jared’s leg. From rolling his hips against Jared’s and chasing the sweet friction he finds there over and over until he’s shaking and sweating and _fuck!_ Jared’s voice is in his ear, lips gently pressed to the shell, coxing him. Begging him to just let go, to let it all out, to just… “Come on, Jensen. So fucking amazing. Just let go.”

And Jensen does. Hard and fast and messy as hell as he shutters and gasps his way through it, fingers digging into Jared’s shoulders as he rides it out. Only once he comes down from it, once Jensen can concentrate again all he can hear is Jared’s raged breathing against his neck, feel the swipe of Jared’s tongue against his Adam’s Apple.

“Bedroom?” Jensen watches the way Jared’s tongue darts out, licks his own lips like he trying to taste what of Jensen remains there before he nods.

It’s a mess of limbs and awkward, desperate kisses as they tumble their way down the hall. Hands and stumbling feet as neither of them are willing to part for more than a second for air. Shirts scatter leaving a trail of breadcrumbs like if this doesn’t work, if this ends horribly then Jensen can follow it and crawl his way back to normal. Start over like nothing ever happened. Only the way Jared is sucking on Jensen’s neck, tongue hot and wet against Jensen’s skin makes him think nothing will ever be normal again.

“Jared… Jared, please.” Jensen’s not sure what he’s begging for, but when Jared reaches down, shaky hands unbuttoning Jensen’s jeans and then slipping inside, he’s pretty sure that’s it. He’s half hard again and he knows he feels sticky and gross, but Jared doesn’t seem to care or notice as he finishes yanking Jensen’s jeans and boxers down and off.

It’s not fair, he thinks, that Jared is still half dressed and Jensen is standing there naked as the day he was born, but when Jared’s hand wraps around Jensen’s cock he suddenly forgets what he was even upset about.

“You… you too,” Jensen’s hand reaches for Jared’s pants, hands shaky on the zipper and _shit_ , he has no idea what he’s doing here. But Jared, Jared gets him. Presses him back until the backs of his knees hit the bed and Jensen falls; disoriented and bouncing for a minute. He looks up, eyes locking with the younger man’s as Jared finishes the job Jensen started on his pants and slides them down his thighs and _fuck_ , Jared isn’t wearing boxers and God that makes Jensen’s cock twitch.

They are pressed together, chest to knees and Jared is hot and hard against Jensen’s thigh, but the bed springs are creaking under them and the sound rings out louder than he thinks it should. Like the apartment is yelling at him, protesting even… and Jensen doesn’t know what to _do_. So he does nothing. He just freezes, hands wound so tightly in Jared’s shirt that his fingers are going numb, but he can’t move. Can’t even fucking _breathe_ and what is he supposed to do with that? Jensen’s not reckless, he’s just not. So this… _this_. Yeah, it’s a bit much.

But Jared is there, breathing hot puffs of warm air against his ear and whispering gentle soothing encouragements. Warm hands run up and down Jensen’s sides, somehow easing the tension back down inch by inch and “if you want, we can stop.”

Only Jensen doesn’t want to stop. That’s the first damn thing he has been sure of in weeks. And Jensen knows that this is a big monumental _thing_ for him. Something that he can’t even being to name. Wouldn’t even want to because labeling this, labeling them… yeah, it just seems wrong since Jensen’s pretty sure words don’t exist that even being to describe what this feels like.

“Jared, maybe we should…” only Jensen doesn’t get to finish the thought because Jared’s mouth is pressing over his, licking the protest from his lips in an _I don’t care, I’ve waited too long_ request. Only it’s not a request. It’s gentle and soft… intimate even, but it’s a demand non-the less and it leaves Jensen feeling like he just sprinted a mile.

“Wanted this…. shit, Jensen,” Jared’s nose runs over the tips of Jensen’s ears, into Jensen’s hairline and it makes him shiver. “Wanted you the moment I saw you. Thought you… thought you wanted nothing to do with me there for awhile.”

Jensen can feel the words hit him, watch as they physically sink into his skin and vibrate off his bones. Jared’s never had a problem with Jensen’s shyness or his complete lack of social skills, he’s been gone for Jensen since day one and Jensen just didn’t get it.

Only he does now. He totally does and while he might not have a clue what he’s doing here, Jared certainly does.

“Please just, fuck,” the younger man pushes his hips forward as if on instinct. “Touch me? Please, Jensen… touch me.”

They should probably close the bedroom windows, Jensen thinks. Because getting caught in this kind of situation by the neighbors when all of the windows are open is not on the top of Jensen’s priority list. But there is something so wrong about it, something so explicit that he can’t help but jam his palm against Jared’s cock. And the hiss he gets in reward, the quick stuttering of hips and the string of whispered out confessions? More than worth it.

Bitten off moans are swallowed up by skin and sweat as Jared snaps his hips forward and expends himself in one long hard grind against Jensen’s hand.

Jensen watches as Jared shakes apart against him, like waves breaking on a rocky shore. He grabs hold of Jared’s hip, steady and sure as he gently holds onto the younger man before he gets washed away by all of it.

“You’re so hot, fuck Jensen… if you could see yourself right now,” Jared is leaning over him, saying things that Jensen just can’t understand because it’s Jared. And Jared is perfect and brilliant and he’s just Jensen. Just Jensen. Except when Jared is involved and maybe that’s the answer and the question and everything he hasn’t known about himself.

So Jensen’s winds his fingers tightly into Jared’s shirt like he’s afraid to let go. Like if he doesn’t he might float away and lose all of this. But the way Jared leans over and kisses him, like Jensen’s the last safe place on Earth. Yeah, it makes him forget he was ever wary of this in the first place.

Jared is safe and he is warm and he is that small reassuring voice telling Jensen that yes, he can do this.


End file.
